


Whose Bed Have Your Boots Been Under?

by littledaybreaker



Category: Broadway RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-26 19:57:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9919958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littledaybreaker/pseuds/littledaybreaker
Summary: In which Jonathan wears cowboy boots to work and Lin likes it more than strictly necessary.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know where this came from or why, but here we are. 
> 
> My thanks to Shania Twain for the title.

One morning, Jonathan shows up at the theater wearing cowboy boots.

 

Not even fashionable cowboy boots, Lin notes—the kind with pointed toes and shiny-ish smooth leather, Han Solo cowboy boots—but the kind that might best be described as shit-kickers. Scuffed brown leather, the toes all battered and broken in, the kind that you might literally wear to be an actual, real life cowboy. Jonathan has his jeans tucked into them. They are completely ridiculous and Lin has never been more attracted to a human being in his life probably ever.

“What's with the shoes?” he asks, bemused, and Jonathan launches predictably into an enthusiastic diatribe.

“Cowboy boots are awesome,” he explains, doing that absurd endearing single-clap thing he does when he's especially excited. “They're waterproof, they have really good grips so you don't bust your ass, they're basically the world's perfect shoe.”

Lin, for his part, is skeptical. “They look ridiculous.”

“So says everyone,” Jonathan says without missing a beat. “But I've got warm dry feet, so he's the real winner here?”

“Okay, Woody,” Lin replies. “Whatever you say.”

Jonathan winks at him and does his King George walk toward the dressing room which is, somehow, a hundred times more attractive than it is usually.

 

During a quiet moment for both of them, Lin sneaks up behind Jonathan (regrettably in his stockinged feet now) and murmurs, “Stay late tonight.”

Jonathan jumps, nods almost too eagerly, and Lin suppresses a laugh. “Wear the boots,” he adds, strolling away nonchalantly before it has time to sink into Jonathan's brain.

 

It's past eleven by the time everyone is gone and Lin is completely exhausted. He's considering saying forget it when he enters his dressing room and finds Jonathan sitting on the desk, swinging his legs back and forth, wearing nothing but a t-shirt, a pair of boxer briefs, and those stupid cowboy boots. “Is this what you wanted?” he asks, trying for coy and falling just short of the mark but endearing—and arousing—Lin nonetheless. He nods, manages an “uh huh,” tugging at the hem of his own shirt, unsure of what to do with his hands. Jonathan makes grabby hands at him, making his mind up for him, and Lin steps forward to press their lips together.

 

Jonathan's hands find their way to his hair immediately and Lin groans. He's helpless to that and Jonathan _knows_ it, the god damn tease.

“You look so fucking amazing,” he manages when they break for air. “What the fuck.”

Jonathan giggles—actually giggles—and Lin kisses him again just to shut him up. They stay like that for several more minutes, Jonathan's hands in Lin's hair, Lin's hands running all over Jonathan's back, until he can't possibly stand it anymore. “Get up,” he orders, provoking a shiver through Jonathan's body, the same reaction every time, never any less hot than it was the time before. “Get undressed and bend over the table.”

“Yes, sir,” Jonathan mumbles, scrambling to take his clothes off, kicking the boots so they scatter under the desk.

“Not the boots!” He sounds so dismayed that Jonathan laughs at him and Lin has to resist the temptation to smack his ass.

“I'm gonna put them back on,” Jonathan reassures him, kicking off his underwear (Lin hopes to god they'll be able to find them later) and stepping back into the boots.

 

The sight of him in nothing but the boots is way too much for Lin to possibly bear and he grabs him around the waist, pushing him down onto the table. Jonathan has an amused expression on his face, poised like he's going to say something, and Lin distracts him pressing kisses down his neck and spine. Jonathan whines, squirming, and Lin murmurs “sh sh sh”. This has always been his favorite—Jonathan laid out for him, completely powerless to Lin's ministrations—and there's something about the boots that makes it next level. If Lin were to analyze it—which he is presently _not_ doing, thank you very much—it would probably lead back to the idea of Jonathan's shiny, all-American, Mennonite early existence, the stark contrast to Lin's own upbringing, the desire to _ruin_ this sweet, innocent little farm boy. He growls, kneeling, and Jonathan makes a high-pitched noise, gasps out, “Lin, _please_.”

 

Normally that's enough for Lin and he gives in, gives Jonathan what he wants without really making him put in any effort to get it, but today he wants something more. “Tell me what you want,” he urges him, and Jonathan's hips twitch impatiently. “Please please _please,_ ” Jonathan tries again, voice bordering on desperate. Lin presses a kiss to the cleft just above Jonathan's ass and shakes his head no. “Use your words, Jonny,” he says, and Jonathan makes a sobbing sound. He's never been particularly good at dirty talk—that's Lin's area of expertise—but something about that word choice is just enough to tip him over the edge.

“I want your mouth—your tongue--” Jonathan clarifies, voice all high and strangled sounding. “I want your tongue...”

“Where?” Lin asks, kissing the spot again. Jonathan's knuckles are white from the effort of gripping the edges of the table so as not to touch himself, his breathing is labored, but Lin isn't ready to give in just yet. “Where do you want my tongue?”

“In my _ass_ ,” Jonathan says finally, his voice pleading and desperate and perhaps the slightest bit exasperated.

“Good boy,” Lin praises, drawing his tongue over the cleft of Jonathan's ass, swirling, teasing, working him open until all of Jonathan's muscles seem to give way, until all he can say is “fuck” and “Lin”.

“You look so good right now,” he adds when he stops for air, reaching in one fluid motion to grab the lube he keeps hidden away, slicking his fingers, sliding one in. “So fucking hot, farm boy.”

Under ordinary circumstances, Jonathan would laugh at him for calling him that, remind him that he was as New York as he was Lancaster these days, but Lin's got him so worked up that all Jonathan can do is moan and beg him not to tease.

 

In six years they've done this more times than Lin can count and every time it still feels in some wonderful joyful way like the first time. They keep coming back to each other, over and over again, and if he were in an analyzing mood (still not), it might come to mean something. Instead of analyzing it, instead of worrying about futures and feelings and other murky things, Lin focuses on Jonathan's cowboy boots, slides his fingers in, crooks them up, listens to Jonathan's high, desperate moaning until his own cock feels so impossibly hard in his pants that he might literally implode if he isn't inside of Jonathan in the next thirty seconds.

 

He rids himself of his pants, leaving his hoodie, there's no god damn time for that, fumbling with the lube and the condom while kissing Jonathan's shoulders, his mouth, whatever he can reach, his cheeks flushed, panting. “You look so good, so good, fuck,” he mutters into the crook of Jonathan's neck as he slides inside of him, tight and hot but open, compliant.

 

Jonathan cries out, head dropping to the table, one balled up fist going reflexively to his mouth so he doesn't make too much noise. Lin holds him steady by the hips, thrusting into him, murmuring compliments, and Jonathan replies by moaning and gasping and mumbling Lin's name.

 

When he hits a particularly good spot, Jonathan cries out, his booted feet arching up reflexively, grasping at nothing, and it's this visual that pushes Lin over the edge, suddenly, with a growl of Jonathan's name. It takes him by surprise and he mumbles an apology against Jonathan's shoulder as he reaches to stroke him, once, twice, three times until Jonathan is shuddering and gasping and trembling beneath him.

 

They spend a few moments like this, Lin still inside of Jonathan, until their breathing goes back to normal and Jonathan regains feeling in his legs. Lin takes care of the condom and offers Jonathan a tissue (which he accepts with a bemused expression), pulls up his pants and watches Jonathan amble around looking for underwear and socks. When he's dressed, Jonathan stands in the doorway, smiling at nothing in particular, and Lin joins him, pressing a fleeting kiss to his cheek. “You gotta wear boots more often, farm boy,” he says, and judging by the wicked grin on Jonathan's face, those boots would be making more than a few more appearances.

 


End file.
